


one good year

by kinnoth



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Fridge Horror, Friendship, Gen, Moral Dilemmas, and yet love of their fuckin lives, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:12:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinnoth/pseuds/kinnoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ragtag buncha college drop-outs working in a start-up</p>
            </blockquote>





	one good year

**Author's Note:**

> branch before the fork, with one set of circumstances leading to canon and the other leading to [the happy au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5899399)

They have one good year that’s actually a shit year right after they leave Byrgenwerth. They have no funds and no benefactors, and no one will rent to a gang of underfed, manic-eyed students, so they take up in an abandoned warehouse in the warf district and set up their equipment. The walls leak wind and none of the doors lock, so all of them take turns sleeping there to guard their things. Laurence never sleeps, though, and he’s always there anyway, so Gehrman ends up staying over even on his nights off to keep him company.

The others aren't quite sure why he's here; he's a botanist by degree and a huntsman of the college militia, but he's no student of the blood. Most of his days he spends sat out by front door, keeping to himself, reading book after book in piles that build up around him. He makes himself useful where he will: helps patch up the place to keep their papers and books from drowning, clears the drains of bone and bits, barters with the villagers nearby for access to their well so that they’ll have water. 

During the summer, it gets so humid that all their research curls, and they have to work in their shirtsleeves. During the winter, there are days when the ink freezes in its pots. 

It’s a long winter, that year, and the snow is bitter. Gehrman keeps telling Laurence he’s got to get a better coat, but Laurence insists he’ll get by, and that they need their money for the work, so at night they push their cots together. They sleep under a pile of all their clothes next to the hearth, and Laurence gets sick anyway.

“What’s the point of all your healing blood if you can’t even fix a simple chest cold?” Gehrman wraps him in both their blankets and, after a moment of consideration, their coats as well for good measure. In front of the fire, Laurence looks like a miserable, cosseted lamb. His nose runs and his face is pink. 

“It’s not that kind of healing,” he complains, but Gehrman knows, and Laurence knows he knows so he just takes the tea as he is given and leans into Gehrman’s side when he sits down next to him. Gehrman sleeps with his arm over his middle til he gets better so that he’ll know it every time Laurence coughs himself awake, and the next time he goes into town he goes personally to the clothiers with his own damn money, and spends the extra coin to have the sleeves let out so Laurence’s wrists won’t hang out like they always do. 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Laurence protests when Gehrman drapes it over the back of his shoulders, but he puts his arms through and does up the buttons. The wool is worn and plain but of good quality. He looks less severe in blue than he did in Byrgenwerth black. 

“You needed it,” Gehrman dismisses, and Laurence thanks him and kisses the side of his mouth. 

Spring comes slowly and their work is going well. The villagers have become used to their presence, and know to expect them when they come round. But they still eschew in askance when they’re asked about their health. They demonstrate their work by bringing sight to a blind man, but the effects do not last. 

The lamps stay lit in the laboratory from evening til morning for weeks afterwards. Laurence, never fully robust, becomes long and wan in unsettling ways. His eyes ring red and then grow shadows. It's to the point that the others begin to murmur and Gehrman, grim eyed and grey, is sometimes heard urging him in fierce whispers to sleep, to eat, to take care of himself, god's breath, Laurence, it can wait, let the others do it, I can do it, I will carry you off if you don't go to bed yourself.

By summer, though, the blood distillation process is stabilised, and the resultant elixir is fast-acting and potent. And the healing lasts. Gehrman keeps quiet as the others find ways of celebrating. He watches the moon, the distant lights of Yharnam city. After long, Laurence joins him outside the building and hands him wine – just wine.

“Congratulations,” Gehrman offers. He drinks his drink and Laurence leans into his side.

“We’ve done it,” Laurence says. “He was frightened. He said we couldn’t, but we did. We weren’t frightened.” Laurence takes his hand. His eyes are moon-bright. 

Gehrman feels his throat tighten. But he holds Laurence’s hand. That’s what matters.


End file.
